Despite growing up to become a rabbi, I don't remember much about my Hebrew School days. I remember being excited to learn the letters, and being bored reading about some people called "Babylonians" in a book that smelled like a basement.
One thing I do remember quite clearly, however, is a trip I took with my shul. It wasn't to a museum or a baseball game. It was to Manhattan, in the late 1980s, to demonstrate publicly in a march on behalf of Soviet Jews. Piling into a yellow school bus with other Jewish teens, we arrived in midtown to find a mass of people, waving signs and banners with slogans, and hoisting high pictures of Jews tortured or detained in Soviet custody.
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